Happiness is Relative
by JenniferJF
Summary: H/D. Set sometime in the future. They might one day find a way to bring John back, but that will be only the beginning. Spoilers through Haunted. Very mild M.
1. Saving

_A/N: Thanks as always to my amazing beta AstraPerAspera for not only proofreading but for the insightful discussions which lead to the fics in the first place. (and yes, hun, they are.,. don't snort)_

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He struggled to surface through the haze of sleep surrounding him. Part of him rebelled. He hurt - everywhere. But he had to know where he was. What was happening. The last thing he recalled had been the darkened alley and the rage of the creature within him flaming to full strength at the sound of _her_ voice behind him…

"He wakes." It sounded like Big Foot. Which meant…

"Another 10ccs. Now." He had been right. It _was_ Helen. He struggled even harder to open his eyes despite the wave of exhaustion sweeping over him, threatening to pull him back down into unconsciousness.

"He's fighting it."

"Dammit, John…" she murmured from somewhere near his right side, a frisson of frustration breaking through her normally calm demeanor, "go back to sleep."

He complied.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The next time he woke, all was quiet around him. Drug-induced sleep no longer threatened to consume him and the pain had receded to the edge of his consciousness.

He opened his eyes. As he'd suspected, he was in a private observation room in Helen's infirmary. And he was alone. Really alone, for the first time in…

It was so silent. Even the beeping of the machines which surrounded him seemed muted and distant. The great roaring… the tumult and rage which had filled him for over a century save for those few precious hours when he had temporarily been free of it, was gone. Completely.

She had done it.

Of course.

He closed his eyes again, finally _really_ at peace, and drifted back to sleep.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She was exhausted. Between the Marmandia's habitat breaking down and reviewing urgent weapon requisitions with Kate and Henry she'd barely had a quiet moment to think all day let alone sit down and actually rest. Still, despite her weariness, and without real conscious decision, Helen found her path leading not to her chambers as originally intended but inexorably towards the guestroom she'd had John transferred to late the previous evening. Which was perfectly reasonable. After all, he was her patient.

And she knew she couldn't truly rest until she'd checked on his condition herself.

When she entered the room, he appeared to be sleeping peacefully. She stepped to the bed and, placing her hand upon his neck, checked for his carotid pulse. It was there, slow and steady beneath her fingers. Quite a change from the thready beat of a few days earlier, but even that had been a relief after losing him several times immediately following the extraction.

Still, it had all been worth it. Or would be once he awoke and she could ascertain for herself that the creature truly had gone. That they had truly beaten it, once and for all.

That John was back.

She watched as he slept on the bed before her, his skin pale and wan in the dim light cast by the single lamp glowing on the bedside table. Yet his flesh was warm beneath her hands, and even now when the drugs should have worn off his sleep remained restful and undisturbed, the corner of his lips curved upwards in a gentle smile. More at peace than she had seen him since before….

Helen sank down into the chair against the wall. She wouldn't stay for long, but she _would_ stay for a little while. Just to make sure he really was all right. To make sure the demons - the _Demon_ -that had haunted him for so long really had been vanquished.

To be there should he awake.

But only for a little while.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

This time, John woke fully aware and in pain; the last of the drugs must have finally left his system. Still, while he hurt, at least it was _his _pain - pure and unshared. It felt good just to be able to _feel_ again.

Opening his eyes, he realized he was no longer lying in the infirmary but in one of Helen's many guest rooms. The room was dark, the only light coming from a small lamp at his bedside, but it was enough to clearly illuminate Helen as she sat curled in a nearby chair, fast asleep. Her neck was tilted at an awkward angle, long waves of hair falling forward across her cheek, casting her features in shadows.

Despite all that had come to pass - all the years that had come between them, all the words and deeds that could never be taken back or undone - looking at her like that, as she slept… The years had hardly touched her at all.

He could almost pretend it had all been a dream. Nothing more than an illusion of memory.

Only it hadn't been, of course.

And, finally free of the creature's influence, with no idea what his personal future might hold, John remained certain of one thing. He had said it before and he had meant it each time he had said it. He would spend the rest of his life trying to make her happy. He would take all of _eternity_, if that's what she needed.

But watching her sleep, her features veiled and controlled even in sleep, he couldn't help but wonder. After all that had happened… after everything she had seen and all that she had been through… after everything she believed she had done…

Would even forever be long enough?


	2. Staying

"Need help?"

Helen glanced from the book case where she'd been replacing a volume she'd decided she didn't really need to find John standing behind her. "No… I don't think so." She slid the book into place and turned to him. "See?"

He looked just a bit disappointed. "Ah… Anything else with which I could help?" The corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. "My physician informs me I'm well enough for 'light labor' and I am feeling a bit…" He waved his hands vaguely.

"Bored?" she finished, returning his smile.

"Just a little, I'll admit." He pointed towards the table she'd been working at, and at the piles of books and notebooks spread across it. "If it's research you're up to, once upon a time I was considered quite good at that sort of thing…."

Pushing aside the memories his words evoked of countless hours spent together in the Oxford library, Helen crossed back to the table, John following. She pushed a few buttons on her laptop and pointed to the picture of the small furry abnormal which popped up on the display. "I'm looking for that," she explained. "The Brazilian Sanctuary received this picture via tourists in southern Chili and it's unlike anything I've ever seen. It looks a bit similar to the Arazi found in Australia, but these little guys supposedly jump from tree to tree while the Arazi are burrowers."

John bent down next to her to get a better look at the monitor. He was so close she could smell his aftershave and the underlying all-to-familiar sweetly spicy scent of _him_, unchanged and unmistakable even after all these years. Mixed with the musty smell of the books and the leather and wood of the library itself, the combination flooded her with memories, threatening her control.

She straightened up quickly and took a step away from the table. Gesturing to the books, she continued, "I thought if I started by cross-referencing Australia with Chili, and then --" Her voice trailed off as his smile grew wider. "Anyway, I'm sure you can figure it out."

He nodded, his smile unwavering. "Yes, I believe I can manage."

"Good… then…" she pointed towards the library door, "If you don't mind, I've got a million other things I should be doing…?"

"Not at all."

She started for the door. Before leaving, she turned back to him. "I'll check in on you later…?"

He didn't even look up from the books he was already pouring over. "I'll be here."

She watched him work for another long moment before turning and, without another word, hurrying from the room.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The book wasn't on her desk where she had said she'd left it. He checked the small bookcase in the corner, thinking perhaps it had been set there by mistake. It hadn't been. But, tucked into a corner of the bottom shelf, he found something else. And though he knew he shouldn't - at least not without asking - he couldn't help himself.

John sat down in the nearby chair and spread the photo album open across his lap. Picture after picture, she looked up at him from every page. First as an infant, wrapped in a blanket in her mother's arms. Or lying on a blanket, staring curiously at the camera before her. Then growing into a toddler, and then a young girl….

The story of her life in vivid color before him. A life that was gone… cut tragically short… and now nothing more than a memory.

And he had been denied even that memory.

But it wasn't until he turned the page and found her looking out at him from the safety of her mother's arms, a child of maybe five or six, her brilliant grin perfectly matching Helen's own, that something inside him finally broke. The pain was overwhelming. It consumed him completely.

John fled the room. And the Sanctuary.

He fled _everything._

-o-o-o-o-o-

She found him where she'd known she would, standing before the crypt which held their daughter's empty coffin, head bent low in grief.

"John?"

At the sound of her voice he turned to look at her. "Helen. How did…?" She held up the photo album she had found on her office floor. He smiled mirthlessly. "Ah… Yes. That."

"Are you all right?"

He turned back to the crypt, leaning on it with one hand for support. "No." It was more groan than word. "I lost… _everything_…"

Her heart broke - again - at the depth of his despair. She reached out, before she could remember not to, and laid her hand on his arm.

He shuddered at her touch; she realized he was crying.

She stepped closer, needing to get his attention. To stop his pain. "John."

A great wracking sob shook him. And then, turning back to her, in one fluid movement, he gathered her into his arms, clutching her against his chest as he buried his face in her hair. She ought to protest, she knew that. But somehow, held tightly in his embrace, she couldn't even remember why.


	3. Loving

"Helen?"

She glanced up from the journal she'd been studying to find John standing at her elbow. "Yes?"

"I think I found it…" He set the book he'd been holding on the desk before her, pointing to the information he wanted her to see. She tried to concentrate, to read the indicated text, but he was so close… his head bent next to hers… His breath whispered against her cheek with every exhalation, warm and whiskey sweet. And his hands, one resting lightly on the back of her chair, one on the book itself, sure yet gentle in that odd combination of masculinity and grace she'd always associated with him alone.

Something moved deep inside her, coiling like a living thing. She struggled to continue breathing. To remain calm. At least on the outside.

This awareness… This difficulty in concentrating on almost anything or anyone else whenever _he_ was in the room… whenever he got _close… _had been growing steadily now for weeks. Ever since he had held her in his arms and she had felt that part of her… a part she had barely even remembered _existed_… come alive again.

She was finding it increasingly harder to ignore, too. And the more time she spent around him, living with and working with and simply _being_ with him, the harder it was to even find reasons she _should _ignore it.

Because it had been so long… Not just with John, but with _anyone_… Since before Ashley's death. Some time before that, actually. In fact, it had been since before Rome. Before seeing _him_ again after so many years.

And he _was _John. She was certain of that now. And with John…

She took a deep breath and forced herself to focus… To concentrate body and soul on the book before her rather than the man at her side.

But it was becoming very hard to do.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

When it happened - and in retrospect it was completely inevitable that it eventually _would_ - they were alone in the library. They reached for a paper at the same time, his hand coming to rest on top of hers. Their fingers entwined as if of their own accord, the warmth of his touch sending waves of desire coursing through her. He held her hand captive, gently rubbing the sensitive spot at the base of her thumb with his….

She looked up, eyes meeting his over their joined hands, finally unafraid of what he might read in her unveiled gaze. He smiled - the first genuine unguarded smile she'd seen from him in ages.

Triumphant.

Reaching forward, he clasped his free hand behind her neck, fingers threading through her hair, and pulled her forward, crushing her lips to his.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

She woke slowly, more rested than she had been in ages, having slept deeper than she could remember having slept in a long, long time.

Quite possibly since the 1880s.

The smell hung poignant in the air around her, the acrid scent of their sweat mixed with the heavy spice of _him_, proof of the night spent in his arms even without the dull ache between her legs or the moisture which still lingered there. She rolled over to find him already awake, propped up on one elbow, watching her as she'd slept.

"Good morning," he said as she settled onto her side facing him.

"Good morning," she agreed.

He reached forward, tucking a stray curl that had fallen forward across her face back behind her ear. He gently caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers as he asked, "Regrets, Helen?"

"Not now. You?"

"Not about _this_." He smiled, but a shadow of sadness washed across his features. Then, his hand shifting slightly, he cupped the side of her face and pulled her gently back into his embrace.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Will watched them from across the library, heads bent together over the papers spread across the table. To a less keen observer, the change would have gone unnoticed. But he could see it clearly in the little things: the tilt of her head towards him, the possessive touch of his hand on her shoulder…. The glances between them when they thought no one would notice.

Though if they thought no one would notice Druitt hadn't slept in his own bed in over a month… Even Kate had noticed that.

Not that any of them minded. At all. Because Druitt brought out something else grown far too rare since Ashley's death.

Magnus's smile.


	4. Being

He collapsed upon her, fully spent. For several long moments he lay too exhausted to move, still feeling the aftershocks of her release through their most intimate contact. Only when she relaxed completely beneath him did he start to shift off her, but her arms gripped him tightly, pulling him back down.

"Don't…" she murmured into his shoulder.

He compromised, rolling them both over onto their sides and tucking her against his chest, her head beneath his chin. She made a contented little sigh as she curled into his side and, within minutes, her breathing had slowed to the gentle rhythms of sleep.

John, however, did not sleep. At least, not right away. These moments were precious… He had spent far too many lonely nights trapped - as he now realized - within his own body, desperately wanting nothing more than simply this: to hold her in his arms again.

He bent to kiss the top of her head and whispered into her hair the words he hadn't yet dared speak again when she was awake. When she might hear them and, like a frightened deer, panic.

"I love you, Helen."

She stiffened in his arms. She hadn't been asleep.

He held his breath, awaiting her response, but there was none.

Eventually, arms still locked around her, he fell asleep himself.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

He woke in the middle of the night to an empty space next to him. Getting out of bed, he quickly threw on his clothes and went to find her.

She was where he'd expected she'd be. The place he knew from her friends she'd always retreated to when in need of privacy.

John found her sitting on the roof, at the edge of the parapet, staring out at the city spread below. He stopped at the top of the stairs leading down and inside and stood watching her in silence for several long moments.

Without even turning to look at him, she finally broke the silence herself, her words flying back at him, barely audible on the wind. "In the end, she really was your daughter."

"Helen.. You know that wasn't...."

She chuckled without mirth. Mocking herself. "Not like that. I mean at the very end. When she… left. _That _was you, John. I'm not sure I'd have had the strength. But she did."

"Yes. You would. For her."

"Maybe…." She was clearly unconvinced. "But you _did_."

"She was who you taught her to be."

"And look where that got her."

"Helen." He started to step towards her but stopped when she remained unmoving, her back a barrier between them. He tried again. "That wasn't your…"

"Wasn't it?" She had never before sounded so exhausted. So _defeated_. "If I had--"

"She was wonderful, Helen. _Perfect_. You did nothing wrong."

She snorted. "Nothing, John? I did everything…"

"No you didn't."

Her voice was small as she answered. "I wasn't speaking simply of Ashley."

"Ah…" He hadn't expected that. Though knowing Helen, he should have. "_None_ of it was your fault."

When she failed to respond, he continued, "Helen. You have to forgive yourself."

"Perhaps…. And maybe one day I will. But not yet…. Not _today_."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere. Not anymore."

She finally looked over her shoulder at him, a brief, sad smile playing across her features. "I know. And I'll never ask it of you."

He nodded once. It was the best he could hope for. For the moment. He gestured to the stairs behind him. "Now, come back inside. It's cold up here."

"I…"

"Helen."

Slowly, she stood and headed downstairs. He followed her. But in the shadows at the bottom of the flight of steps she paused, her hand on the door leading inside and her voice, when she spoke, was so low he had to strain to hear her. "I love you, too, you know. I always have. Even when…" Her voice trailed off into nothing, but nothing more was needed.

"Yes, I know."

Then, just as though she hadn't spoken at all, Helen opened the door and stepped through into the brightly lit hall inside. John followed her and together, they headed back to bed.


End file.
